


The Day After Tomorrow

by Syberina5



Category: Arrow (TV 2012), DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-30 11:09:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6421588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syberina5/pseuds/Syberina5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Well Felicity Smoak, as I live and breath.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Day After Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KayCeeCruz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KayCeeCruz/gifts).



> Disclaimer: Guilt Arrow is good line, not gonna lie.  
> Author’s Notes: YouTube is a click hole and an object of global domination (read: I wasn’t even going to watch season four because reasons and then YouTube spoiled me. Suddenly I had devoured even the _Arrow_ episode of _DC’s Legends of Tomorrow_ and less than 24 hours later…. You’re welcome?). Also, I seem to be to joining Shakespeare in developing a bizarre avoidance of unhappy endings. To sum up, anything _Arrow_ EVER to come from me is Kat's fault, so this is for her.

Her hair wasn’t as bright or as shiny, but he could practically feel it against his face the second he looked up and saw her standing there, her back to him, punching things on the terminal, and shaking her head at the condition of her once precise programs.

“Well Felicity Smoak, as I live and breath.” And the second it was out of his mouth he knew it was a bad call ( _Hello, long lost frat boy Ollie Queen; how much I have not missed you_ ) but there was still so much anger over the way she left, over missing her, and shitty glee over seeing her back in what was left of _home_ that he didn’t just ignore, but relished the way her shoulders tensed right before she pushed them down, bringing her head up.

“You are in such fucking trouble, asshole,” she spat at him in language he was glad to hear: this was a fight with equal chance of bloodshed. “Because, you know, it would have been nice, a heads up, about all that living and breathing you were still doing.” With a growl she pegged something at him, he was too riveted on her beet red face to figure out what. “Dickhead. But, _no_. You’re Oliver Queen, brooding guilt-mobile. You have to just let the world assume that Wilson’s televised stunt was the actual end of you. What? Did you just sit by the comm and watch me panic? Didn’t feel any reason to pick up, huh?”

“You made your choice, Felicity. _You left_. You. Not me. You. _Again_. So what was I supposed to do? Answer and pray the line wasn’t compromised. Wait for you and your helicopter to come after me?”

“Duh! And don’t act like you didn’t beg me to leave for months, Oliver. _Months_.”

“And every time you came back at me with a soulful speech about perseverance and hope and fighting for what was right, honoring the sacrifices of the lost, making the most of what we had left. Every time until you just couldn’t hack it any more, couldn’t stick by your own fucking clichés.”

“Stop it. Just stop it. You know that’s not—”

“She was my daughter too Felicity and you left; you just left.” The fight would have deserted him as well if she had shown the slightest weakness, if she had been a little bit broken by it all too.

“That’s not fair, you bastard,” she flung at him through angry tears, finally within arm’s reach. And, as much as he wanted to wipe the tears from her face, all he could see were the tears on their child’s as his baby lay dying.

“At least some things don’t change,” John muttered from a corner somewhere behind Oliver.

“ _Johnny_ ,” she breathed and ran to him, wrapping him in her tender death grip. “Do not even get me started on you, young man.”

Oliver could hear the moisture in his chuckle and feel it in his own eyes.

“So, what brings you back to the charming environs of SC, Aunt Fi?

“News of your little double team stunt got out. Somebody in all this rubble still has sufficient internet to send out videos. I’ve seen enough training sessions to know what I was seeing.” 

He was watching them out of the side of his right eye, afraid to look right at her, too hurt to see her in maternal mode in that moment. “They still here?” she asked Oliver without even looking away from her inventorying of John Jr.’s growth.

“No. Still off in that ship of theirs.”

“Well, at least somebody was able to knock some sense into you. _Finally_.” She patted Jo—Conner’s cheek and started to peel off the layers she was still wearing—at least in part a disguise to get through town un-accosted—and clatter off of the hub and in the direction of the med bay. “Now come put those ostentatious muscles to some good use and help me clear these beams out of the lab. We’ve got work to do,” she looked back over her shoulder, making eye contact with him—weary, sharp, but more relieved than livid (though still plenty of that), “and a city to save.”

He was pretty sure he felt his lips quirk up in one corner—and was mildly surprised his flesh didn’t crack—and though she was still looking at him, there was no way she could have seen, his beard good for multiple things.

***

The bunker was quiet. John/Conner and—he hoped—Felicity asleep in the rooms of sublevel he’d been living in since the vandals gave him up for dead. He couldn’t sleep and so he did what he did when he couldn’t sleep and couldn’t stare into space missing the dead another second: he trained.

He’d landed hard on the floor—over balanced because of the change in his center of gravity, without the Ray-Bot arm— and knocked the wind out of himself. He’d been lying there for a while, getting his breath back when he felt her step onto the mats. His mind flashed back to a hundred, maybe a thousand times she’d done just that, her toes quiet in brightly colored socks or the slippers she’d taken to wearing because her feet got cold, or the slick shoes where kaleidoscopes of nail polish would wink at him, teasing at his attention. 

She pulled over a training block and sat. He forced himself to sit up and watched as she patted the space next to her.

He wanted to run, to yell, but her face was solemn and he figured this was the Come to Jesus portion of his punishment. He couldn’t even bring himself to settle roughly beside her.

“Here,” she shoved something into his hand and wiped her nose on her sleeve like a kid in the cold.

He looked down as the plasma screen and there was his baby, smiling, laughing, clearly telling whomever it was to get the camera out of her face even as it shook and another person joined her on the screen, kissed her while she blushed. Oliver breathed out a laugh and slid his other hand into his hair, trying to catch himself as the relief, the gratitude took the weight pressing on him away—well, part of it. “She made it,” he said, tears on his cheeks and in his voice. “She’s alive.” Oliver looked to Felicity for confirmation—she was definitely older in the images then when her blood was allover his hands but it could be from awhile ago, anything else could have happened to a child of his.

“Oh Oliver,” Felicity said as her arm came around him, her hand replacing the phantom on his head, she pulled it towards her and kissed his temple. “Yes. Of course she did,” she laughed, her hands under his jaw, “she’s just like her father. Drop a mountain on ‘em and they still come up swinging. Hey, you can even drop ‘em off a mountain….” She sighed deeply, pressing their foreheads together. “I’ve seen it more times then I can count.”

It felt so true—her skin to his, her hands on his body—that his eyes wanted to sink shut, revel in the dream his mind kept telling him this had to be. He had to wrench them open time and again to look at the evidence that his little girl, their little girl had lived to become a woman, was somewhere in the world with someone who loved her. He couldn’t tell if the sounds coming from his body were sobs or mirth and he honestly did not care.

“God Oliver” she said after a while, her hand making a comforting circuit on his whole bicep, her chin and on his shoulder, “I am still so mad at you my hair hurts.”

“Good.”

Laughter. Hers. His. Theirs.


End file.
